


heavy is the light

by Anonymous



Category: World of Warcraft
Genre: M/M, Slow Burn, and it's sort of a fix-it too i GUESS, canon divergent babeeeeeey, i'm inventing a lot of spare time that canonically doesn't exist, post-bfa but pre-shadowlands, wrathion and anduin gotta kiss and make up
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-25
Updated: 2020-07-25
Packaged: 2021-03-05 20:41:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25501534
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: The Fourth War is over, N'Zoth is defeated, Sylvanas hasn't kicked the Lich King's ass yet. Everything is slightly less awful.Except, peacetime isn't exactly peaceful when Wrathion's around.[ abandoned for now, sorry ]
Relationships: Wrathion/Anduin Wrynn
Comments: 15
Kudos: 61
Collections: Anonymous





	1. Chapter 1

It was a cold morning. Huddled in a swathe of furs and shivering against the biting sea winds, King Anduin Wrynn peered out across the bustling crowds that choked Stormwind Harbour, a pensive look on his face. 

Seated atop the steady bulk of his warhorse Reverence, he was several heads above the contingent of guards that flanked him on both sides, and the swell of harried dockworkers, soldiers and civilians beyond. The harbour was never usually so busy, and rarer still in receipt of an official visit from the king, but recent weeks had seen the end of a bitter and futile war, and the beginning of a long journey home, one that Anduin felt he ought to honour, at least through presence alone. A peace treaty had marked the end of faction aggressions, signed and declared and made as official as any scrap of paper could be, which had in turn sparked the withdrawal of troops from Kul Tiras and Zandalar alike. Whilst forces had been drafted rather indiscriminately across the continent, it was only natural that the bulk of the Alliance’s fighters would be heading home to the human capital. Plans had been drawn up and orders dispatched for a staggered return schedule, bringing ships in gradually so as not to overwhelm the workers at the docks, but even this left resources strained. The arrival of citizens in their droves hadn’t helped matters much, though Anduin sympathised with their desire to reunite with long-absent loved ones.

He was watching a family now, a young mother with a child clutched at her breast and another grasping at her leg, standing resolute amongst the jostling crowds. Another warship had recently docked, sailors yelling commands and workers hurrying to retrieve cargo, and it was on this vessel— _The Indomitable_ , some distant part of Anduin’s memory supplied—that the woman’s eyes were eagerly trained. Soldiers were only beginning to disembark, heavy backpacks slung across their shoulders and a relieved sort of weariness to their gait. A couple of the men descended arm-in-arm, half-clad in armour and clearly in their cups, but Anduin could hardly fault them for the indulgence; they’d fought long enough and hard enough to be deserving of a break.

The march of the disembarking soldiers quickly began to peter out, each of them dispersing amongst the crowds, linking up with family or friends and setting out for the city proper, but the young mother still stood, patient and unmoving. Anduin was beginning to wonder if she had perhaps confused the warship for another, when a jovial shout interrupted his thoughts. The captain of the vessel had emerged to the upper decks, laden down with personal effects and leaning over the edge of the great ship, a wide grin on her weather-beaten face. It was this sight that spurred the mother into movement, pushing gently through the crowds ahead, child in tow, until her feet found the sodden wood of the wharf. By this point, the captain had disembarked, and no sooner had she hopped from the gangplank was she in the other woman’s arms, peppering kisses on her cheeks and her lips alike. Anduin smiled warmly at the sight, but soon dipped his gaze to give the two some privacy—or at least, as much as one could offer in such a crowded place as this.

“Cold day for it,” came a gruff voice, off to his side.

Anduin glanced down, a shock of red hair announcing the presence of his spymaster. “Shaw,” he stated, by way of greeting. With any other advisor he might’ve felt inclined towards formality, but over time Anduin had come to realise that the older man had little fondness for such. Capable of it, but hardly eager. The rebellious streak in him felt a certain kinship with that. “Are you waiting for someone?”

Shaw wasn’t looking at him, cool gaze tracking the crowds as though he intended to memorise every face amongst them. He took longer than expected to answer—though by his terms, that was hardly more than a second. “No.” Another pause. “I had a report from Silithus land on my desk this morning; I’m led to believe it may be of interest to you. I came here to deliver it personally.”

There was no real reason a spymaster ought to be the one playing courier; even to Anduin’s ears, the excuse felt weak, but he didn’t press the issue. Whatever business Shaw had in the area was just as likely to be unsavoury as it was interesting, and it was usually best to leave him to it. The man had proven himself loyal a thousand times over, pulling rank out of curiousity alone felt unfair.

“Whoever sent it wasn’t one of my own, but I couldn’t detect any threat from it,” Shaw continued, holding out a tightly-rolled scroll.

Anduin let go of Reverence’s reins for a moment, flexing his fingers—even through thick gloves, the cold had settled in and rendered them stiff. For a brief moment he wondered how Shaw could look so unperturbed by the chill, as bare as his arms were in his SI:7 uniform, but a closer inspection betrayed the periodic shivers the older man was evidently trying to resist. Pushing the meandering thought aside, Anduin reached down for the scroll, noting as he did so that the wax seal was bare of any identifiable crest—it hadn’t even been stamped at all. He turned it over in his gloved hand for a moment, giving it a lingering, thoughtful look, then tucked it away under his furs. Something best saved for privacy, no doubt. “Do you miss Kul Tiras?” he asked, quite unexpectedly.

Shaw was clearly surprised by the question, one eyebrow arched as he finally glanced up at his king. “The stench of fish and salt, pirates and thieves at my back, and storms that made the Wetlands seem arid by comparison?” he snorted, rolling his shoulders.

Anduin opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off.

“Regrettably, yes.” With that, Shaw slipped away, the crowd swallowing him up so completely it was though he had never even been there at all.

Anduin watched him go, lost in thought. The scroll he had been given pressed against his ribs, the desire to read it suddenly insistent and gnawing, though he wasn’t entirely sure why. Twisting his horse’s reins through his fingers, he gently coaxed the beast to turn towards the city, hearing rather than seeing the guards at his sides adjust their own position to match. The warships hadn’t yet finished unloading—there were three more scheduled for this day alone, and a handful of brigs and sloops expected even into the night, but he supposed his absence might be forgiven. The end of the war had placed even more responsibility at his feet, to ease his kingdom into peacetime and make sense of the messy aftermath, and though he understood the need for a king’s visible presence, there was really only so much one could do while bundled in furs and staring at a crowd.

_And only so many reports one could read,_ his mind added, unhelpfully.

* * *

The keep was relatively quiet when he arrived, though he couldn’t help but wonder how much that assessment was coloured by the crowds that had amassed within the harbour. He tipped his head in silent acknowledgement of guard and servant alike as he guided Reverence through the front gates, accepting each murmured “Your Majesty” with only the slightest pang of discomfort. He was well used to the honorifics that accompanied royal life, unsurprisingly so, but where before each “Your Highness” was tinged with fond—or oftentimes, furious—exasperation, now those around him were timid, subdued in their tone. It was as though his ascension to the throne had warped their view of him, made them perceive an authority that he wasn’t ever confident he held. Or that he even _wanted_ to hold, for that matter. Indeed, there was still a certain strangeness to each reminder of his status. He had thought it might wear off after a while, that the twisting in his gut was borne of novelty, but when it had failed to abate with time, he resigned himself to simply living with it.

A stablehand approached as he dismounted, lingering as Anduin gave Reverence a gentle scratch behind the ear. The warhorse nickered at him, nudging a large nose towards the little pouch of sugar cubes Anduin kept hooked on his belt, and earning a warm laugh. Slipping a glove off, he offered up one of the treats, and the horse caught it on its tongue, shaking its head in apparent appreciation. Anduin glanced over at the stablehand, standing patiently with hands clasped, and smiled warmly at him. He was careful not to let the expression falter as the boy visibly hesitated before returning it. Young, barely in his teens, all freckles and crooked teeth, Anduin noted absently. When the boy reached a hand out to take the proffered reins and lead the warhorse away, Anduin saw the callouses and nicks and bruises that spoke of work and toil and a life much harder than it ought to have been. Guilt gnawed, and he made a note to have a quiet word with the crown’s financiers. It was only as the boy disappeared out of sight that Anduin realised he didn’t even know his name.

* * *

Dusk was approaching by the time he found a moment to himself. His arrival back at the keep had been accompanied by tenfold councilmen and minor nobles demanding a moment of his time—inevitably, moments had stretched into hours, and Anduin felt as though he might’ve flung himself out the nearest window had Genn Greymane not stepped in at some point during the proceedings, far more experienced with minor trade disagreements, and firm enough to seek a resolution from even the most stubborn of petitioners. Anduin hated to admit his own weakness in the matters, but the intricacies of frivolous political dispute still eluded him; it was a language he was only beginning to speak and felt little motivation to learn. He supposed that was why he valued his advisors so highly, there to prop him up when his obvious inexperience inevitably reared its head, and why he tried so hard to ignore the small voice in the back of his mind that chastised him for the dependency.

By the time the final noble had filed out of the audience chamber, Anduin could feel his eyelids drooping. He hadn’t been particularly tired before, but something about affairs of state always seemed to drain the life out of him, and the sudden freedom to go collapse in his bed was so sweet he could’ve sobbed with it. A quiet farewell to Genn—hunched over a stack of trade manifests and giving a barely intelligible grunt in response—and he was heading to his room, far too distant in this Light-forsaken keep than he would’ve liked at that moment.

As he walked, he patted at his tunic, feeling the soft swell of fabric where Shaw’s unmarked missive from earlier was still tucked. He had discarded his furs hours back, shedding them as he had ventured deeper into the the fire-warmed heat of the keep, reluctantly allowing them to be lifted from his arms by the various servants that always seemed to trail, quiet and demure, at his heels. He had tried to protest that he was perfectly fine carrying them, and that they were going to end up in his quarters _anyway_ , so why not take them there himself? For all the flawless logic of his argument, it had been softly rebuked by a smile, and a murmured platitude about kingly duties, and his furs were whisked away all the same. As he ascended each floor of the keep, with the chill of the night chasing lingering heat from the stone halls, he rather wished he had pressed the issue.

By the time he reached the overly-grand wooden doors that opened into his quarters, he was acutely aware of each shiver crawling up his spine, but he hesitated before entering. Unbidden, his eyes slipped across the family portraits that lined the walls, pausing at one of the thin slits in the cobblestone that tried its best to pass as a window. He stepped over to it, peering out across the city, at the pinpricks of light from house and lantern alike, pushing back against the encroaching darkness. The winds from the morning had stilled, and from his vantage point, it was as though the city had settled into a silent stand-by; so distant was he that even the tiny dots of movement through the streets were indistinct, swallowed up by shadow. He knew that if he were down there, on the pavements of the Trade District or in the grubby alleyways of Old Town, he would be surrounded by a nocturnal thrum of activity—ambitious barkers still trying to tout their wares; rowdy soldiers celebrating their return with a drink too many and a song too loud; dockworkers fresh off a rough shift and eager for a soft bed—and he felt a painful sort of longing deep in his gut. Down there, in those city streets, there was a life to be lived. His eyes slipped from the window, caught the gaze of King Varian Wrynn, stern and proud, frozen in a thousand brushstrokes. 

Up here, in this stone tower, there were only ghosts.

* * *

A fire was burning low in the hearth by the time he finally entered his quarters, its heat permeating the room so thoroughly it was almost stifling. The shift from the frigid stone hallways to the plush carpets and drapery of his bedroom was always a jarring one, but not unwelcome. He was grateful for it on this night in particular, tired of the chill that had nipped at his fingers and wormed its way under his skin. He had always felt unfairly vulnerable to the cold, a byproduct of a sickly youth, a run-in with a bell, and too many days cooped up in the warm confines of the royal library, never bothering to brave the worst of Stormwind’s winters. _Always too soft,_ he thought, in a dull echo of words heard far too often, in a voice he’d give the sun and stars to hear again.

The scroll slid out of his clothing and bounced once, twice on the floor as he unbuckled his belt, no longer held in precarious place through pressure alone. He stared down at it, brow furrowed, as his fingers continued to work, setting the strip of leather aside, then pushing his tabard over his head and hooking his fingers under the hem of his tunic. In one swift movement, it was off, and flung aside, and still he stared. Boots were kicked from feet, trousers wiggled out of, and still his eyes did not leave that offending scrap of paper. He had waited all day to read it, and yet nothing in this moment compelled him to reach down and retrieve it. It was as though he was apprehensive of what he might read, and given its point of origin, perhaps that hesitance was not so misplaced.

_“Silithus,”_ Shaw had said. An invaluable stronghold in the fight against the Old God, N’Zoth. Only, N’Zoth was gone now. Dead, allegedly. He had felt it the moment it happened, like a weight lifted from his mind, a fog cleared. The only darkness left in his thoughts was his own, and he had more than enough experience in suppressing _that_. Still, he hadn’t let himself feel hopeful—too fearful that it had been yet another vile trick—until confirmation had come in the form of a messenger, sent on behalf of Magni Bronzebeard. Details had been vague, and from the sounds of it, very few had been present to bear witness to the monster’s defeat, but the steady retreat of Ny’alothan forces from Uldum and the Vale had put any lingering doubts to rest. For all the streets of Stormwind were awash in celebration of the end of the Fourth War, it occurred to Anduin that the real victory may very well have been overlooked. But perhaps that was for the best, he thought, as he finally tore his gaze from the scroll. It was one thing to be emotionally manipulated by an eldritch being from the dawn of time, it was quite another to be actively aware of it. There was an unbridled potency to _that_ particular form of madness.

He abandoned the scroll for the moment, retreating to the bathroom. A bowl of water had been laid out for him, a washcloth sitting beside. When he dipped his finger into the liquid, he was pleased to find it still warm, and was quietly grateful for all the miscellaneous spellcasters in the crown’s employ. The problem with Silithus, he mused as he wet the rag and scrubbed deftly at his face, is that there were more individuals at work there than just Magni Bronzebeard. More _complicated_ individuals. And if that scroll was what he hoped— _feared_ it was… He stared down at the bowl of water for a long, lingering moment, very carefully not thinking anything at all. 

The scroll was lying exactly where he had left it. That he noted this at all was profoundly silly of him, he knew. It was hardly likely to have _moved_ in his absence. Before he could even begin to second-guess himself, he knelt down, snatching it up and breaking the seal all in one smooth motion. It unrolled easily, and his first thought was that he didn’t recognise the handwriting. It was rigid, but formal; written by a hand well acquainted with delivering dull and overly-detailed reports. His second thought was that Mathias Shaw was far too good at resealing scrolls. Though it was only natural that he had read it first, and the missive _was_ addressed to him, as it turned out. The initial few paragraphs were a succinct summary of Ny’alothan forces in the area—where they had last been spotted, where they were likely to be headed, and a general approximation of their number. None of it was ciphered, but then, it didn’t have to be; creatures of the void didn’t much care to intercept mail, and these threats, as they were, affected both factions equally. He unrolled the scroll further, and Anduin felt his mouth run dry as he read.

_Incursion into Ny’alotha was successful. A number of the Old God’s lieutenants felled in the process; the threat they posed can be considered nullified. Recommend deploying additional agents to Uldum and the Vale, temporary stations, as further assurance. N’Zoth additionally neutralised; final blow struck by the Black Prince; recovery progressing well._

He lowered the scroll, an odd feeling in his gut. He wasn’t sure if it was pride, or abject fear. _Recovery?_ Chewing on his lip, he dipped his gaze to the final line.

_Expect his arrival in Stormwind imminently._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's MY fic and i'll add fairshaw hints even though this is set before shadows rising* if i want to!!!!!!!!
> 
> *sort of
> 
> (p.s. i will try to update regularly bc i like 2 type)


	2. Chapter 2

Mathias Shaw was waiting for Anduin in the throne room when he finally stumbled downstairs, hair falling loose and chestplate still unbuckled. He was normally loathe to sacrifice the soft comforts of silk and cotton for the unrelenting metal of his armor, and would avoid it where at all possible, but some part of him yearned for the extra layer today. As though a tough exterior might soften whatever blow he felt likely to experience; physical or otherwise. He hated to admit that Wrathion made him feel that way, shot through with an energy that he hardly knew the words for, but that sat at the back of his throat as though it were nerves. He didn’t fear the dragon—though by all means he probably should—but if it wasn’t fear that skittered along his spine and made him feel likely to crawl out of his own skin, he really wasn’t sure _what_ it was.

“Rough night?” 

Anduin paused in retying his hair to eye the spymaster, leaning against the throne in such a calculated picture of insouciance that he knew it immediately to be an act. “You could say that.”

The edge of Shaw’s moustache twitched upwards ever so slightly, in what might’ve been a smirk. “I suspected as much. I take it you read the report, then.”

 _Read it and re-read it and read it again,_ his mind supplied, but instead he simply nodded. He could practically recite the thing by heart at this point; sleep had eluded him, every creak and groan of the keep’s aged structure sparking him into full awareness, heart pounding as though it were at all logical to expect a squeaky floorboard to be the herald of Wrathion’s arrival. The dragon was far too fond of dramatic entrances to ever accept something so mundane.

“He’s expected here by noon, at the earliest,” Shaw pushed off of the throne, finding his place at Anduin’s side. As he spoke, he began to buckle the king’s loose armor straps; there was no particular warmth or gentleness to the action, just simple practicality. “I’d tell you more, but I’m afraid that’s all I have. Blacktalon agents are hardly the most forthcoming.”

Anduin stood still as Shaw worked, reaching up to finish retying his hair only after the spymaster had stepped away again. “Try living with them for a while,” he snorted. He cast his gaze around the throne room, curious at the lack of guards. “Your doing?”

He didn’t have to clarify what he meant, Shaw already tracking his gaze towards the conspicuously empty posts. “We don’t know what to expect,” he said, by way of explanation.

“And your answer is to empty the keep of all defenders?”

“No,” Shaw grunted, “my answer is to empty the keep of _untrained_ defenders.”

Anduin shot him a questioning look, moving towards the throne. He didn’t sit. “The people of this city have history with the black dragonflight. If we are to prepare for all eventualities, including the risk that Wrathion has been—” he hesitated, searching for the right words, “ _compromised_ by his encounter with N’Zoth, then I see no reason that the royal guard should be deemed unfit for duty.”

“History,” Shaw repeated, deadpan. “Many of the guards who fought Onyxia have been lost in years since, and were hardly effective against her even then.” 

“Lost?”

“Retired, killed—” Shaw grimaced, spread his hands. “Regardless, my agents are far more experienced in resisting mental assault. If things were to go poorly, exchanged blows are hardly the most significant threat.” 

Anduin just hummed in thought, not entirely willing to entertain the idea. He knew Shaw’s precautions were valid enough, as much as they discomfited him. The idea that, even in the wake of N’Zoth’s defeat, he should have to continue to doubt his friends didn’t sit well in his gut. But knowing the duplicity of the Old Gods meant preparing for every eventuality, and if a sliver of the creature’s consciousness was ever to live on, there were few vessels better suited than the mind of a black dragon.

“Besides,” Shaw continued, interrupting his thoughts, “I figured you two might want a little more privacy.”

Before Anduin could formulate a reply—or even begin to process the spymaster’s words—there was a shout from the direction of the keep’s main entranceway.

“That’ll be him,” Shaw mused. “I have agents on watch, should anything go wrong.” He made for the exit that opened out on to the gardens, pausing briefly to add: “ _Don’t_ let anything go wrong.”

* * *

Anduin took the spare moment of isolation to collapse bodily onto the throne, his armor clunking awkwardly against the stained glass behind and preventing any actual comfort he had hoped to derive from the move. He felt like yelling, as though a scream of pure frustration were settled just at the back of his throat, clamouring for an easy escape. He wasn’t ready for this reunion, not really; the last they’d seen of each other, he’d thrown a fist, and Wrathion had departed for Silithus not long after. Hardly the ideal opportunity to talk things through, and Light, did they have a fair few topics to cover. Now, here was Wrathion once again, fresh from killing a god, and— what was there to say? Or, rather, how could he ever have the words to say it? _I’m sorry for punching you, great job with N’Zoth, but you still killed my dad._ Was it even fair to blame Wrathion? Should he bear the guilt for consequences unintended? Though how he could ever have expected the best of Garrosh’s release, Anduin did not know. He had spent far too long and lost too much sleep trying to understand the dragon’s motivations, and every time, had come up short.

He reached a gloved hand up to rub at his eyes, letting out a long, slow groan. A thudding pain had begun a steady tempo at the base of his skull, and he channelled the Light to soothe it. The last thing he needed was a headache, when there was already one due to arrive any minute.

“My, my— what a picture of indignity. Should I leave again, allow you to regain your composure? Perhaps come back later?”

Anduin’s eyes snapped open, letting out what felt like all his breath at once. “Wrathion.”

“The very same.”

Anduin scrambled up where he was seated, his armor clanking too-loudly against the heavy metal of the ancient throne. He knew that absolutely nothing about his movements were graceful, nor was his fluster particularly befitting of a king, but the thought mattered little. Wrathion had already seen him at his worst, sick with fever and ungainly on shattered limbs; caught in a moment of surprise and embarrassment was hardly a blow to his self-image.

“Please, don’t get up on my account,” Wrathion drawled without a hint of sarcasm as he moved forward, perching on an armrest of the throne.

“I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I gathered.”

Anduin opened his mouth to speak, then shut it again. He was seated upright now, but that only meant he had to twist round to look at Wrathion proper. The dragon had shuffled backwards, pulling his legs up and crossing them beneath himself, a picture of innocent comfort as though he hadn’t just settled himself unbidden on the king’s throne. He didn’t look much different from the last time Anduin had seen him, but when it came to any sort of shapeshifter, appearances were quite obviously deceiving. He knew that he was staring, picking out every detail of the dragon’s older form; he had never gotten the opportunity to know it before Wrathion had left, and were it not for his most obvious traits, Anduin couldn’t confidently say he saw the dragon’s younger self in it. The set of his jaw, the arch of his brow; gone were the softer features of his youth, replaced by sharp lines, sharper grins and— and even _more_ facial hair. He wasn’t sure he had the words to describe how he felt about the new look, just a vague collection of half-formed thoughts and a feeling in some deep viscera of him that might’ve been butterflies but could just as well have been wasps.

Wrathion stared back at him placidly, the bright glow of his eyes almost hypnotising in their intensity. Anduin got the feeling that he was being studied just as closely, every detail of his aged face being mapped out and memorised. It should’ve made him feel self-conscious, but nothing in Wrathion’s expression communicated disapproval, just a quiet curiousity.

“You look good,” Anduin blurted out, at the same moment as Wrathion simply offered:

“You’re old.”

A blush rose quickly to Anduin’s cheeks, though whether it was embarrassment or indignation, he couldn’t actually tell. “I’m _not_ old!”

“You really are,” Wrathion sighed, “but I suppose I shall just have to live with it.”

“Not all of us have the luxury of being born yesterday.”

Wrathion opened his mouth to reply, then twisted it into bared fangs, a small puff of smoke escaping from between his teeth. “I don’t intend to dignify that with a reply.”

“I believe that would count as one.”

Silence accompanied the fangs this time, though Anduin couldn’t help but notice the upward pull at the corners of Wrathion’s mouth that belied the apparent aggression.

Anduin found himself grinning in return, a lightness in his heart. It felt strange. Not new, but warm— and familiar. He wasn’t sure how to feel about that, so he tucked the thought away for later. “I’m supposed to be angry at you,” he sighed.

“I did notice a distinct lack of physical assault this time around,” Wrathion mused, tapping a clawed finger against his lips. 

Anduin pulled a face. “Would you accept my apology if I led you to believe it was all N’Zoth?”

“The punch, or the apology?”

Anduin glared.

“Then, no,” Wrathion stated, with a nod. “I would accept your apology if _you_ believed it was all N’Zoth.”

“But—” Anduin choked out, Wrathion cutting him off as he reached for a fist that Anduin hadn’t even noticed was clenched.

“ _But_ you wanted to punch me, and you may even wish to now,” he hummed, gently uncurling each of Anduin’s fingers. “I don’t blame you. I’m only asking that you don’t blame yourself.”

Anduin wasn’t entirely sure what to say to that, so he settled for nodding mutely. Wrathion hadn’t yet let go of his hand, and he tried not to think about the heat of his grip, or the soft scrape of claws against calloused skin. It was more that he didn’t know what to do with, little moments of awareness that asked far more questions than they answered. Then flashed brief memories—warm and sun-dappled and so distant they could’ve been from another life—of clasped palms and shared grins and stolen kisses that really ought not to have tasted of fermented brews, but did anyway. A softer existence that was worlds away, in more ways than one. He gently extricated his hand from Wrathion’s grip.

“The report—” Anduin started, breaking the silence that had descended upon the throne room. His voice came out raspier than intended, and he quickly cleared his throat. “It said you had been injured.”

“Ah,” Wrathion said, his hands now clasped together between his knees. “Yes. I would hasten to deny _injured_ , but my encounter with N’Zoth was certainly… draining.”

“You killed him?”

“As far as I can tell, though that’s hardly a guarantee, such is the nature of the Old Gods.” Then, as an afterthought, “The dwarf certainly proved himself useful.”

“Magni,” Anduin supplied, automatically.

“Yes,” Wrathion hummed, in such a way to suggest that he had no intention of memorising the name at all. “My mind is clear enough after the encounter, though I confess— I thought it would feel different, somehow.”

Anduin blinked owlishly at him. “Different?”

“As though the perils of Azeroth no longer bore down on my shoulders so intently,” Wrathion said, with a smile that wasn’t quite sad.

“No such luck,” Anduin murmured. “But you have people, don’t you? Champions to share the burden, a brother by your side—”

Wrathion cast a sidelong glance at him, and his nod of affirmation felt more like placation than agreement, but Anduin didn’t push the matter. “Say,” the dragon announced suddenly, “where _are_ your guards?”

“You’ve only just noticed?” 

“My mind was on—” Wrathion hummed contemplatively, “ _other_ matters.”

Anduin carefully ignore the slow, sickly-sweet way the dragon said that, knowing instinctively that it was a lie. Wrathion was just as likely to ignore the obvious as he was to invest his trust, which is to say: rarely, if at all. “I sent them away.” The half-truth came easily, and he had to concede that perhaps Jaina had been right about the dragon all those years ago. Definitely a bad influence.

“To leave yourself vulnerable? Why, King Wrynn, _anything_ could happen!” Wrathion tapped a clawed hand against his chest, though whether it was to punctuate his adopted affectation, or to identify himself as the ‘anything’ in question, Anduin was not entirely sure.

“Vulnerability suggests I have something I might need defending _from_.” 

The eyes that met Anduin’s then were suddenly hard, the vermilion glow almost seeming to intensify, throwing the features below into sharp relief. “Don’t you?”

“No,” Anduin said calmly, “I don’t believe I do.”

Wrathion’s face was close to his then, eyes still burning, lips pulled back in a snarl. “And you can be so sure of that, little king?”

“Yes,” Anduin replied simply. The measured responses certainly sounded convincing, anyone listening would’ve been fooled. They couldn’t possibly hear the double-quick heartbeat thudding against his ribcage, feel the sticky dryness of his tongue against the roof of his mouth, taste the coppery tang of blood that pooled at his bitten lip. He was lying, and it was entirely credible, and he knew that Wrathion did not believe it for a second. It was remarkable how quickly the dragon could inspire such a response in him. Fear, or something akin to it. Whatever it was, it set his pulse racing.

“Search my mind,” Wrathion said.

Anduin, distracted by the hot breath against his skin and the reckless abandon by which he had riled this creature that could very well kill him in less time than it took to form a single thought, only managed to offer a weak, “What?”

“I know you and your spymaster have had your suspicions. It’s only natural. My mind,” Wrathion repeated, patiently, “search it.”

It took a long, slow moment for Anduin to reach a point of realisation, his hands already rising of their own accord by the time he had fully processed the idea. Gazes still locked, Anduin felt rather than saw his fingers slide gently into Wrathion’s hair—some distant part of his him noting its softness and filing the information away for later. “I haven’t really done this before,” he said, brow furrowing as he willed his body to calm itself and concentrate, to call upon the Light.

Wrathion did not reply, his eyes sliding shut almost of their own accord.

The Light could not read minds, but it could assess purity—it would not know your thoughts, only whether or not they were worthy of rebuke. Anduin had always found it unsettling, not least of which because the logic by which it operated made little sense. Who was to judge what was pure or not? Sin was subjective, varying even between the faithful. How could any force, benevolent or otherwise, begin to unravel the intricacies of morality so absolutely as to serve judgement by thought alone? And if the Light had a will of its own, an arbiter of some great cosmic ethos, was he beholden to its laws? Could he have broken them already?

“Focus,” Wrathion murmured, interrupting his anxious thoughts. “You know the weight of N’Zoth’s influence; search for it. Set aside all else.”

Anduin took a breath, refocusing his mind. He felt his fingers flex on the sides of Wrathion’s skull, squeezing tight as though he meant to bore through, though the dragon gave no indication of discomfort. In turn, the Light pulsing from his palms shone with an emboldened intensity, and in that moment, he felt the dragon’s consciousness—a vague impression, distant and indistinct, but altogether bright and true. Probe as he might, he could feel no corruption here, just a warmth that edged close to scalding, and a sense of impossible vastness, as though there was something far greater tucked into a mind barely big enough to hold it. It was only as he contemplated that secondary sensation that he felt himself snapped back to reality; a jarring and uncomfortable transition that left him reeling.

Wrathion shot him a smile, equal parts reassurance and a warning. Anduin realised then that the connection had been severed physically, the dragon pulling his head from between the king’s hands suddenly and forcefully, as though snatching him from a precipice he hadn’t even known was there. He lowered his hands, awkwardly.

“I didn’t feel anything,” Anduin murmured, then clarified: “No corruption.”

“See?” Wrathion said, his grin becoming altogether toothier. “Nothing to worry about.”

Anduin shook himself a little, clearing the fog that had settled over his mind. “Oh, plenty to worry about. Just thankfully not in this room.”

Wrathion shuffled his seating position a little, tipping his head back to rest it on the throne behind him. He offered no response, just huffed out a gentle laugh as his eyes slid shut.

“When you say _draining_ —” Anduin said suddenly, harking back to their earlier conversation, but before he could even begin to ask, Wrathion cut him off.

“I’m tired, Anduin. Terribly so.”

“No changes there, then.”

Wrathion cracked one red eye open, an unspoken question.

“You used to sleep all day at the tavern, don’t you remember?”

“No, I don’t remember.” Wrathion closed his eye again. “I slept through it.”

Anduin snorted a laugh, but his mood quickly lapsed back into solemnity. “Is that why you’re here in Stormwind, then? To rest?”

“Would you rather I went elsewhere?”

“No, I—” Anduin faltered, then settled for an easy explanation. “It’s just not the most peaceful of locations. Particularly in the wake of war.”

“It’s safe.”

Anduin made a face, and Wrathion’s lips briefly turned up in a smile—though how he could’ve seen the expression, or whether he was even reacting to it, was entirely unclear.

“It’s _safe_ ,” Wrathion repeated for emphasis, “when your best friend is the king.”

“Oh.”

The silence stretched unbroken then, for several minutes; the only noise was the soft huff of Wrathion’s breathing as he fought off the intoxicating draw of sleep—or perhaps, succumbed to it. Anduin watched him all the while; the tension slipping from the dragon’s brow as the seconds dragged on, the little waft of smoke that slipped from his lips on the deepest of his exhales, and the periodic roll of his shoulders as he tried in vain to seek comfort against the rigid metal and stone of the throne behind him. He felt near to sleep himself when the quiet was finally breached, but gently enough, in hushed tones.

“I trust you’ll have a suite prepared?”

Anduin nodded, then—realising the dragon could not see the gesture—simply whispered back, “I’ll set you up in the broom cupboard.”

The soft laughter he earned soothed something in his soul he hadn’t even known was disquieted.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in which wrathion appears, anduin is sort of oblivious, and i'm really hungry and want to go get a snack


End file.
